THE ARRIVAL.

Alice Churchill was none of those fragile beauties whose step is too light to bend “a hare-bell ’neath its tread”—whose eyes are compared to those of the gazelle, or to violets and dew-drops—with cheeks like the blush rose, and lips vieing with sea-corals, contrasted by teeth of pearls! No such wealth of beauty had Alice, but she was a very sweet girl notwithstanding—just pretty enough to escape being called plain, and yet plain enough to escape being spoiled for her prettiness. Mrs. Churchill was a widow of very moderate fortune, living in a retired village of Pennsylvania, more than fifty miles from any town of note, and which even in the year ’45, (happy little village!) could boast of neither steam-boat nor railroad. It was here she had removed with her husband soon after their marriage, and here for a few brief years their happiness had been unclouded—until the shadow of death resting on that happy home severed all earthly ties. Peaceful now in the quiet grave-yard is the sleep of the husband and father.

Seventeen summers of Alice’s life had passed away—not all cloudless, but happily—for she was kind and affectionate—in making others happy she was herself so—indeed, as I said before, although she had no wealth of beauty, Alice was rich in goodness and purity of heart. Mrs. Churchill had offended her family by marrying a poor man, and there had been little or no intercourse since that period. When, therefore, she received a letter from her brother, not only affectionate, but accompanied also by a kind invitation for her daughter Alice to pass a few months in Philadelphia, it is difficult to say whether joy or surprise preponderated. Anxious alone to promote the happiness of Alice, Mrs. Churchill, sacrificing her own feelings at parting with her child, hesitated not to accept the offer. Little did Alice know of the world, except from books. Books had been her only companions, and, under her mother’s judicious selection, these best of friends had wrought a silent influence over her mind, preparing her to meet the realities of life, its pleasures and its trials also, with rationality.

Such, then, was Alice Churchill, the innocent cause of the matrimonial fracas illustrated in a preceding chapter.

The boat touched the wharf, and the motley crowd which had been watching her approach, noisily sprang on her deck. “Have a cab, miss?” “Cab, sir?” “Take your baggage, ma’am?” “Have a carriage?” Poor Alice shrank back into the farthest corner of the ladies’ cabin, perfectly bewildered with the noise and confusion. At length she heard her own name called, and, stepping forward, she was the next moment in the arms of her uncle. Mr. Hazleton embraced her affectionately, and then, gazing long and earnestly upon her, exclaimed, as he wiped a tear from his eye?—

“Yes, you do look like your dear mother!”

But this was no time for sentiment, especially as the stewardess, anxious herself to be on shore, already began to bustle about preparatory to the next trip—so, after attending to the baggage, they left the boat, and were soon rattling through the streets at the mercy of an independent cabman who “had another job.”

Who that has passed through the streets of a great city for the first time cannot imagine the feelings of our simple country-girl, as she found herself thus borne amid the busy throng—the side-walks crowded with people hurrying to and from their business—the gaily ornamented windows—elegantly dressed ladies—beggars—squeaking hand-organs—dancing monkeys—the cry of the fish-man, mingling with the noisy bell of the charcoal-vender—carriages clashing rapidly past—omnibuses rattling heavily along—dust, din, smoke—no wonder the poor girl rejoiced when the cab stopped at her uncle’s dwelling, and she found herself safe within its walls.

“My dear love, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to my niece,” said Mr. Hazleton, advancing with the blushing Alice on his arm.

Mrs. Hazleton coldly raised her eyes from the book on which they had been pertinaciously fixed, and with a slight bow and a formal “How do you do, Miss Churchill!” as coldly dropped them again.

Not so Julia, who, in spite of the lessons her ma’ma had been teaching her for the last half hour, could not see this young, blushing stranger so repulsed—she therefore rushed forward, exclaiming?—

“O papa, do stand away, and let me greet my new cousin.”

“Julia! my dear!” emphasized Mrs. Hazleton.

“Now, my dear Alice—that’s your name, is it not? Mine is Julia—Julia Ketchim—horrible! don’t you think so? Now you must not wonder at ma’ma—she is a great reader—she has got hold of Carlyle—but she is very glad to see you—so are we all—but that’s her way. Come, sit down—or would you prefer to go to your room?”

“Julia, I am surprised!” and Mrs. Hazleton rang the bell.

A servant entered.

“Show Miss Churchill her apartment.”

“O no, ma’ma, I am going with Alice.”

“Nancy, attend Miss Churchill. Julia, I want you—Julia!—Julia!” and with pouting lips and a very flushed face Julia was forced to obey, but not until she had whispered to Alice, who, almost terrified, was following the servant maid:

“Never mind ma’ma, dear—she is great upon etiquette—she is a Ninnybrain you know.”

There was an attempt at a Caudle lecture after Alice had left, but to her dismay Mrs. Hazleton found her influence, like the honey-moon, rapidly on the wane! When Alice again appeared in the drawing-room escorted by Julia, who, in spite of ma’ma, had contrived to slip away to her apartment, Mrs. Hazleton for the first time allowed her eyes to dwell searchingly upon the person of her unwelcome guest. To her inexpressible relief she found Miss Churchill presented that happy medium of which she had never dreamed, viz. that although her countenance was pleasing, yet she was by no means handsome enough to cause her one moment’s fear on the score of rivalship—while her natural ease of manner at once removed her from that awkward simplicity she had expected to find in an unskilled country girl. The effect of her scrutiny, therefore, was so satisfactory that Mrs. Hazleton with a pretty, girlish air instantly embraced her, and trusted she would feel herself as much at home as under her own dear mother’s roof. Although somewhat surprised, Alice did not doubt the sincerity of her welcome, and grateful for her kindness, returned her aunt’s embrace. Mr. Hazleton gave his wife a smile of approbation, while Julia whispered:

“There, I told you so—O that odious Carlyle—I knew ma’ma would be glad to see you when she had put down her book.”

At the close of the evening, after the girls had retired, Mrs. Hazleton affirmed that really Miss Churchill was quite passable, and that if her manners only had a little of the Ninnybrain air—as, for instance, Julia’s or her own—one would hardly suspect that she had never been accustomed to good society! Upon which wondrous conclusion of his lady, Mr. Hazleton shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.

——